


Nothing Like You

by Renata Lord (snowlight)



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, M/M, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowlight/pseuds/Renata%20Lord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after National Gallery, Q greets a new 007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like You

**Author's Note:**

> "Georgi Markov" refers to the Bulgarian dissident writer who was killed in 1978, in London. An assassin injected poison into his body by using an umbrella tip.

He meets this Double-O-Seven not on a bench in the National Gallery but in his own office, with a print of _Isle of the Dead_ firmly behind him on his wall.

And _this_ Double-O-Seven isn’t a man of all jagged edges and scars wrapped in an expensive suit. This one has a nondescript face that somehow appears ageless (no lines, no spot, no stubborn stubble) with soft-looking hands (no callus, no smell of gunpowder, no faintly showing veins) and steady coal-black eyes (no sharpness, no heat, no irises colored in a shocking blue).

All the more curious is the fact that this one is much younger—more than a decade younger than he. However, the Quartermaster makes it a point to never underestimate youth. After all, twenty years into holding this post, at the ripe old age of forty-four, he is _still_ the youngest Quartermaster in MI6’s history. 

“Double-O-Seven,” he says, offering his hand.

The young man’s grip is firm. (All theirs are.) “Q.”

He gives the agent the standard assortment of equipments and explains their respective uses. Then he hands over a sleek black umbrella.

“Georgi Markov?” The young man smiles at him politely. 

The Q twenty years ago would have countered that comment with cutting irony, but this Q has little need for retorts as a weapon, now. “No. But the monsoon season is upon India,” he smiles back, “and this one doesn’t shoot out ricin pellets, only tear gas. Lots of tear gas.”

*

“He came in today,” he says over his last cup of Earl Grey for the night, “The new appointment.” _New appointment, yes. Replacement, never._

“And?” 

Q turns and finds his white-haired partner lodged comfortably in the corner sofa, legs resting on the stool and briefing in hand. Peering at him from behind those reading glasses, the eyes of this ( _his_ ) Double-O-Seven are still shockingly, shockingly blue.

“Quiet young bloke. Seemed to be up for the job. Got a little uppity about the umbrella, though—and do _not_ say ‘I told you so’.”

“Did he ask if he was supposed to poison somebody with it?”

“That definitely falls under ‘I told you so’.”

“Well, fine then. As long as he returns it in one piece.”

“He—” and here Q pauses, “he is nothing like you, thus I am rather hopeful that he would.”


End file.
